


Venice In The Rain

by zizis



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-23 22:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13797750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zizis/pseuds/zizis
Summary: Serena and Bernie have never met. Serena finds herself in Venice .....





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Notes : Non- Canon compliant. I have juggled with Serena’s time line and taken some liberties with Bernie’s story. It’s a sort of AU but our faves are still alive (though Jason has not come into Serena’s life yet). Except Serena’s mother. Which is where my story begins….
> 
> Rated mature (ish) for later chapters. Plenty of angst though.
> 
> This is my first effort at a proper multi chapter fic. It is all written and I shall be posting in chunks.
> 
> Thanks to @mistyflorus for the encouragement, and to my ever patient non Berena gf, who has nevertheless listened to me reading each chapter out loud to her and has been nothing but supportive of my efforts.
> 
> All errors are my own.

Up close the brush strokes of the painting seem almost crude and stark, but when you step back the colours and the textures transform themselves. The evening light from the canalside streetlights reflected in the rain lashed pavement seems to shimmer and dance with an unquiet passion. It is an extraordinary painting. It is “Venice In The Rain”.


	2. It Rains

Serena leans against the balustrade of what the apartment rental website extravagantly termed her balcony, but which is in reality little more than railings that prevent her falling onto the street below once the long floor to ceiling windows are opened. She doesn’t mind. The view is remarkable. Overlooking the Grand Canal facing the San Marco district. The light has already begun to slip away from the late afternoon sky, leaving just enough to dimly frame the dark brooding clouds, clouds which now begin to spill their burden in the increasingly heavy rain, pummelling the water below. On the bank opposite the three lamped street lights cast their glow across the wet paving slabs. The rain looks set to stay. She wonders wryly to herself whether choosing to come to Venice in November was perhaps the best of ideas.

It had been Hanssen who had insisted. Insisted that she take some leave. It had been a rough year. Her mother’s angry dementia had taken its’ toll on Serena, emotionally and physically, and since her death a month ago she’d just felt numb and empty, all energy spent. “Take a few weeks off Ms Campbell. You need to recuperate. We’ll call it compassionate leave.” Take a rest before you make a serious mistake, he meant. He’d probably envisioned her somewhere hot, on a beach maybe, letting the sun and cocktails heal and restore her. She’d considered that, but instead she’s chosen Venice. In November. When the guidebooks warn of torrential rain and dense fog. Oh and of flooding. But Venice is where her parents met. And somehow it seems fitting to return to here, where once her mother dazzled so brightly that her father couldn’t help but fall under her spell. It is a homage to her. To a time and place when she was unscathed, vibrant and whole. A time before her once sharp mind began to dissolve; before her frustration and fury rained down on Serena. So here she is. In Venice. In the rain. In a studio apartment in the Dorsoduro district made affordable only by it being so completely out of season.

A gust blows a shower of the rain against her and she retreats into the room, closing the windows as she does so. Ever practical, her thoughts turn to provisions. The owners of the apartment have thoughtfully provided a folder of practical instructions – helpful notes and maps, and some tourist leaflets that guests might find useful. A few basic items in the fridge, and most welcome of all, a bottle of Valpolicella.

Another gust of rain slams against the window. Right. That’s decided. Wine it is. Before anything else. She feels slightly awkward. The room is comfortable enough. A large bed, a deep armchair, small round table with two chairs, a breakfast bar dividing off the kitchen area beyond it, and to the side, the small bathroom. But it is empty. Cold. Unfamiliar. Serena is used to living alone. Has done for many years, her daughter Elinor an infrequent visitor now. She is used to her own company, but the unfamiliarity of her surroundings seem to heighten her sense of being alone. She pushes the feeling to one side and spreads the map open across the table. She makes a note of where the apartment is, and walks to the window to get a better sense of her bearings. She stands and looks out through the shimmering panes, sipping at her wine for a familiar comfort. She can identify the Accademia Bridge not far below her, its’ metal structure shining in the rain. The rain has chased most people away. There are only a few brave souls crossing it, umbrellas pulled down as they try to protect themselves from the rain’s onslaught. Save one poor soul. Serena can’t help but huff a small laugh to herself at the sight. Umbrellaless, shoulders hunched forward, head bowed and pulled down into the upturned collar of a long coat, hair drenched and plastered flat. She watches, amused, as for a moment the head rises to shake back the wet locks, before dipping down again. She catches the briefest of glimpses of a woman’s face. And then she is gone.

She turns away from the window. There is bread, cheese, eggs and fruit in the fridge. The wine tastes deep and warm. Enough for now. She will leave shopping for provisions until tomorrow. For now she will stay dry.


	3. Can I Help ?

Bernie wakes. She throws off the duvet and staggers across from her bed into the kitchen, dragging her fingers through the mess of hair, a mess that is even more untamed than usual following yesterday’s drenching. The wooden floor is cold beneath her bare feet. Coffee. She needs coffee. An expletive escapes her as she clocks the empty packet on the counter. She opens the fridge and reaches for the milk carton. Sniffs. Off. For fucks sake ! She is going to have to go shopping today, come what may. Her eyes scrunched, she pulls open the curtain. It has stopped raining, thank the lord, though it is quite foggy. The mist will clear.

She reaches for her trousers, flung across the back of a chair when discarded last night, and pulls them on. Her shoes are somewhere. A clean shirt at least. Well, cleanish. Her coat, which she remembered to hang up on the airer in the bathroom to dry, is sadly still damp but necessary in the November air.

She briefly wonders whether she should write a list of what she needs. Decides she’ll remember. Grabs her wallet and pauses momentarily by the mirror. Runs her hand through her hair again in a futile last pathetic effort to tame it, gives up and leaves her apartment.

It is an easy walk to Campo Di San Margherita with its discreetly hidden supermarket. An easy walk when you have been living in Venice for a while. Which Bernie has. When you know which of the tiny lanes are not dead ends and which bridges will lead you where. Venice is not a place where you can rely on which way the crow flies. It is not a city designed for strangers, or for logic. To get to your desired destination you have to be prepared to set off in a counter intuitive direction. For a visitor to the city, you need an open mind and a spirit of adventure.

*********

Serena has both of these. She also has a list of groceries to be purchased. And an Italian phrasebook. However, despite her many skills and her thorough preparation, she does not possess an adequate sense of direction. She pauses on a bridge to try and get her bearings, but it is a minor canal in an unremarkable (insofar as anywhere in Venice could be described as unremarkable) area, and she has to concede to herself that she is lost.

Bernie notices the woman on the bridge. It would be hard not to. Even from this distance she is a striking figure. Wrapped in a red coat, collar turned up, scarf at her neck, with a fur hat pulled firmly around her head. Watches her as she looks around and then dips back to consult what appears to be a map, a map that the woman is clearly finding it difficult to hold steady in the strong breeze. A lost tourist. Quite rare at this time of year. She approaches the woman.

“Can I help ?”

Serena starts with surprise, then smiles with relief. English. She speaks English.

“Thank you. Oh, yes please. If you can. I appear to be rather lost. I’m looking for….” And she reads in hesitant Italian from her guidebook the name of the grocery store. She looks up and sees Bernie’s face properly for the first time. She is immediately struck by the intensity of her dark eyes, and the welcoming broad smile.

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m headed there myself. Let me show you the way.”

And Bernie is rewarded by a relieved smile that spreads across the woman’s face, creasing at the edges.

They fall into an easy rhythm as they walk.

“So, are you here on holiday ?” Bernie asks.

Serena pauses. Much as she already feels the warmth of the stranger’s voice, she is not ready to explain fully, so compromises with, “Yes. I’m renting an apartment. Just arrived yesterday.”

“Your first time in Venice ?”

“Indeed. Hence my total inability to find my way !” Serena laughs gently at her own ineptitude.

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Bernie chuckles softly, “nor the last. I’ve been here for almost a year now, and still….” She pauses, “Don’t you think there’s a particular pleasure in getting lost ?” she whispers conspiratorially, “You never know what you might find.”

Or who, Serena thinks to herself. If she didn’t know better, she might think the stranger was flirting with her. Surely not. She reprimands herself. She is just being friendly. Get a grip Serena, you really need a coffee ! She looks across to her companion. Again she is struck by the gentle warmth of the smile that greets her.

“I’m Bernie, by the way.”

“Serena. And thank you for being my knight in shining armour.” Oh Serena, she thinks to herself, who’s flirting now !

But if she’s made Bernie uncomfortable, Bernie doesn’t show it. Merely responds with a beaming smile, “My pleasure. But you were doing pretty well. The square is just around the corner. ”

They walk on. Bernie muses to herself, I rather like this woman. How strange.

“Here we are.”

The square is more of a sprawling open space lined by houses from centuries past, many of which seem to crumble and peel. There are a few market stalls but not many at this time of year, the stall holders huffing their steaming breath on their cold hands in a vain attempt to make them warm. The door to the supermarket is discreet and gives little indication of what lies behind it.

“Don’t worry. It’s quite substantial inside. I’m sure you’ll find everything you need,” she anticipates Serena’s question.

“So long as it stocks proper coffee !” Serena laughs.

“Snap. That’s why I’m up and about this early. Completely ran out. Can barely function without my morning shot.”

“Strong and hot is all I care about,” Serena responds.

Bernie pauses. Yes, she likes this woman. There is something about her.

“I’m sure you’ve got things planned but….” She hesitates. This isn’t like her. Not like her at all. She’s a bit of a recluse really, “….but if you’re not rushing off, would you fancy a coffee before heading back ? I know a decent place not too far ….”

She tails off, embarrassed.

Serena can’t help but notice the flush that creeps across Bernie’s face. It intrigues her. Damn it. This woman intrigues her.

“I’d be delighted.”

********

Which is how the two of them find themselves entering the small café, clasping large bags in their arms, full of provisions. There is a fire already lit in the large fireplace, and they settle at a small table close to it.

Bernie removes her coat and hangs it over the chair nearest to the fire.

“I hope you don’t mind me hogging this seat. It’s just I got drenched yesterday in that downpour and my coat is still damp. You’d think, living here, I’d remember my umbrella !”

Serena peers at Bernie, and slowly it dawns on her.

“You weren’t by chance crossing the Accademia Bridge ?”

“Yes. Why ?”

“I saw you !!”

“Good lord. Really ? I’ve never been so wet in all my life, well, not with my clothes on !”

And Bernie leans back in her chair and lets out a loud laugh, which Serena can only describe to herself as a honk. A delightful and totally infectious throaty honk.

As they laugh together, at the coincidence, at the joint recollection of the soaked Bernie, Serena wiping tears from her eyes, Bernie’s shoulders heaving with laughter, both laughing in a way neither have for so many months, something stirs inside each of them, and suffuses through them. They relax in the warmth of it, and don’t stop to think that they know little more about the other than their name.

After the coffee is drunk, Bernie looks at her watch and realises how much time has passed.

“I’m so sorry Serena. I have to go. I have an appointment I need to keep. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you. Look, ….” Dare she ? “ ….here’s my mobile number. If you get lost again.” She jests. “Or fancy another coffee, or something….” She flails hopelessly, and to avoid looking at Serena, scribbles the number on the back of an old receipt she finds crumpled in her pocket.

“Thank you. I may well take you up on that.” Serena smiles. And Bernie feels a flush of something that she hasn’t felt for years now.

“Sorry. Must dash.” And Bernie leans in to briefly kiss Serena’s cheek. And then she is gone.

How extraordinary, Serena reflects, as her fingers trace the numbers on the piece of paper.  
 


	4. A Bowl of Pasta

Over the next few days Serena tries to immerse herself in the splendours of Venice. But even standing in awe before the huge frescos by Titian and Tintoretto adorning the walls and ceilings of the many churches she wanders into; even dazzled by the golden interior of the Basilica di San Marco; even as she picks her way across the wooden planks that criss-cross the flooded Piazza San Marco, her mind keeps returning to the image of Bernie. When she stands at her window she half (only half ?) expects (hopes ?) to see a now familiar figure walking across the bridge below. She is partly amused and partly bemused by the destination of her thoughts.

Bernie’s number is now safely tapped into her mobile phone. As evening falls she lets her fingers dance over the phone until Bernie’s number flashes up at her. The ball is in her court. She hesitates. But why ? Why hesitate ? Why does it matter so much ?

Serena is a determined woman. And by the third evening she has convinced herself that there is nothing strange about seeking out some pleasant company to while away an evening, and that this is all it means. So she types out a text to Bernie. Doesn’t reflect on just how long it takes her to decide on the right wording. Or how long she hesitates after writing it before she sends it.

“Hi. Serena here. Don’t worry, I’m not lost again. Just wondering if you fancied meeting up for a bite one evening ?”

There. Done it. Gone. What will be, will be.

It is darker now. The rains patters outside but otherwise it is silent. She settles back in the armchair, a glass of wine in hand, the open bottle on the table beside her. The book on her lap is a good one. The luxury of having time to sit and read. Why then has she read the same page about a dozen times, and still has no word gone in ? When her phone buzzes the arrival of a text message, it startles her, makes her jump. The message is simple.

“I’d love to. If it’s not too late for you, call me and we’ll sort something out. B.”

This is ludicrous she thinks to herself. Her heart is pounding with excitement. You are like a stupid teenager, she reproaches herself. It’s just dinner. A harmless dinner with someone you met. And liked. A woman you met. And liked. Pull yourself together. Anyone would think this was a date. It’s just dinner. Call her.

“Hi. Bernie ? Serena here. Is it a good time ?”

“Perfect. How are you ?”

Serena feels the soft warmth in Bernie’s voice.

“Good. Good.”

And then she doesn’t know what to say. Serena Campbell lost for words. Well there’s a first.

Bernie rescues the moment. “So, what did you have in mind ?”

Suddenly Serena has quite a lot of things in mind. All of them quite unexpected and wholly unsuitable. She pushes them away, and pulls herself together.

“I was wondering if you might be able to suggest somewhere. Nothing too fancy. Perhaps somewhere the locals go, away from the touristy menus.”

“Mmm. Really ? Do you like pasta ? I know a fabulous little place that does the best pasta in Venice.”

“Perfect. Sounds just the ticket.”

“When did you have in mind ?”

Serena chuckles, “Well, my diary’s pretty clear….”

“How about tomorrow evening then ? Shall I come to you ? It’s rather hard to find and I wouldn’t want you getting lost on me.”

And so details are exchanged and arrangements are made for the following evening. More brief pleasantries and the call is ended. And Serena sits back in the chair, sips at her wine, and lets her mind drift, she knows not where, her book abandoned for the night.

**********

By the time the following evening comes she has tried on her entire wardrobe. This is not a time consuming experience as she only has a limited amount of clothing with her. But she wants to create the right impression. Exactly what that is, or why it even matters, she is unsure. Serena, usually so confident, is new to this self doubt. On most dates she has had it’s been a matter of “you don’t have to impress them, let them impress you…” and mostly, they, the men who have passed through her life either briefly or lingering for a while, ultimately haven’t. She reminds herself – Bernie is a woman; this is not a date. And in the end, it is time that decides for her.

And Bernie’s arrival is on time, though probably no one is more surprised about this than Bernie herself. Bernie tries to shrug off a feeling of shyness as they make their way towards the vaporetti stop to board the water bus that will take them along the Grand Canal to the Castello district which houses the small trattoria Bernie has in mind.

Venice at night is different. It is dark and quiet. Neither of them speak. Their way is lit by occasional street lamps which spread a murky blurred light through the damp misty air. Serena feels she could be anywhere in time and space. She thinks to herself that she should feel vulnerable in the slightly eerie quiet darkness. But instead, as she walks alongside Bernie, the water lapping against the canal walls, the muffled sound of their steps on the damp pavement, she thinks it is rather magical.

The contrast when they reach the trattoria is sudden. The door opens to bright light, and the sound of laughter and loud Italian voices greets them. It is already quite full but, as Bernie has rung ahead, a table for two in the corner awaits them. The menus confirm what is already apparent – this is a place meant for locals, not an English translation in sight. The aroma of deep rich sauces fills the warm air.

“Will this do ?” Bernie asks.

“It’s perfect.”

Bernie breaths an audible sigh. “Wine ?”

“I bloody hope so !” Serena laughs, and the tension Bernie has been holding in immediately dissipates.

A bottle, the first of several, is brought to the table, lush and full in flavour. And after some explanation and recommendation from Bernie, dinner is ordered. Bowls of steaming pasta coated with sauces that dance across their taste buds, deep and satisfying.

There is no rush. Plenty of time to begin to get to know each other, and discover why two English women of a (very similar it turns out) certain age, find themselves in Venice, in November.

Bernie learns of Serena’s mother’s last months. She listens intently to every word, and finds herself becoming mesmerised by the low timbre of her voice, the sparkle in her eyes which doesn’t dim even at the most painful recollection. She says little herself, content to listen and soak up Serena. There is by now no doubt in her mind that Serena is entrancing. But as she acknowledges this she also begins to box these thoughts away. She tells herself that the woman (this beautiful woman, this truly beautiful woman) is here to recover, to recuperate, to grieve, and is just looking for some company, nothing more.

“And you Bernie ? How did you end up living here ?”

How to answer ? Is it so very different to her ? To recover, to recuperate, to grieve ? It’s complicated. Or maybe not all.

She answers simply. “I came to paint.”

“How wonderful.”

And before and before ? Does she tell her of her career in the RAMC, of the IED which ended it, of the nerve damage to her left hand that put paid to her work as a surgeon, of her failed marriage, of her estranged children, of Alex, oh definitely not of Alex ? Of all this she says nothing. Nothing of the damage to her, nothing of the damage she caused to others.

Instead she talks of her life now. Of the light and the colour, of the magic and the mystery. Until she hears herself talk of Venice as a place to lose oneself and allow oneself to be reborn, to start anew.

The bowls are now empty. Serena picks up the bottle and tops up Bernie’s glass, then her own. She knows instinctively that now is not the time to look Bernie in the eye, knows to avoid the challenge of a direct stare.

“And before ?” she ventures.

Her voice is gentle and soft. And Bernie wants, oh how Bernie wants, to tell someone, to tell Serena.

***********

Bernie loves her life in the army. She loves the heady mix of discipline and instinct. Of rules and when to break them. She knows she is good at what she does. Trusts her own judgement. Knows what calls to make. When it will save lives and limbs. Her mind and fingers adept and nimble, whether in an operating theatre or by the roadside. Those who work with her admire her, are fiercely loyal to her, and sometimes just a bit scared of her. Because she is the real deal, Major Berenice Wolfe of the Royal Army Medical Corps.

Of course she feels pangs of guilt at leaving her children behind, though less at leaving her husband, Marcus. She tries to compensate when she is home on leave, but knows they feel betrayed by her each time she leaves again. But there, in the desert, she can truly excel, and let the worth of what she does justify her absences and assuage that guilt.

Even when she meets Alex. Alex. Who blasts open doors to feelings that Bernie thought she had nailed shut. It is easier to forget about your vows to Marcus when the sands of the desert are swirling all around you in the wind, when your lips are still burning from the touch of another woman’s, when you feel more alive than you have ever done before.

Home on leave, her family feel second best, runners up. They are strangers to each other. And of course, Marcus finds out. When she closes her eyes she is no longer there beside him. He is no fool. They shut her out. Back in the field she is blown back to earth, to Blighty, to a hospital bed, by a road side bomb her jeep drives over. And then everything is lost. Damaged. She can no longer work as a surgeon. Angry and frustrated, she vents at anyone around her. Alex comes. And Alex goes. A relationship built on sand that cannot sustain when the world that unites them has gone.

Now there is no career, no Marcus, no children, and no Alex. All that remains are the nightmares which punish her every night. Filling her head with screams of pain and unstoppable flowing of blood.

The army provides therapy, physical and psychological. Impatient with the former, and reluctant to engage with the latter, Bernie somehow discovers a new way to express herself. Through charcoal lines and paint. The images of pain and guilt, of blood and bones, that crash across her early canvasses, gradually give way to images that reveal a beauty in even the cruellest of scenes. Never one for vocalising, she finds expression through her painting, a solace in the solitary act of observing and comprehending.

“And before ?”

Does she tell her all this ? No. Not yet. But something.

“I was a surgeon with the RAMC. Coincidence, huh ?”

Serena says nothing. Knows there is more. Waits.

“But then I was injured in Afghanistan. Injuries to my left side. Left me with nerve damage to my left hand, and an inability to stand for long periods.”

She looks down at her traitorous left hand now laying on the table surface.

“No feeling in these last three fingers, and limited sensation in my index finger and thumb. Not exactly ideal for a surgeon.” She huffs wryly.

“I was a bloody good surgeon though.” An afterthought. Her jaw set firm.

How can Serena answer ? She, for whom her life as a surgeon is everything, at which altar she too has sacrificed her marriage, her daughter, and her mother.

“Oh Bernie…..”

And she reaches out and places her hand on top of Bernie’s as it lays there, her thumb stroking across the back of the hand where it meets her wrist.

It is like a jolt of electricity through Bernie’s entire body. It stops her breath. Her heart seems to pause for a beat before pounding again, racing to catch up with itself. She looks from Serena’s hand on hers and then up to Serena’s face. For a moment each woman holds the other’s gaze, searches for a sign that will tell them what this moment means. Bernie thinks she might drown. She hauls herself back.

“So now, I paint.”


	5. Sit For Me ?

“So now, I paint.”

She pauses for the blood rush in her ears to slow. And before she has thought it through, the words “Would you sit for me ?” escape her lips. Too late to take them back, a torrent of qualifications, escape routes, tumble after them. “Of course, that’s silly. You’re on holiday. Lots to see and do. I couldn’t possibly ask you to give up your precious time. Better things….”

But Serena hushes her.

“How exciting. I’ve never “sat” for anyone before. I’d love to.”

And so it is settled.

“Oh,” is all Bernie can reply. Then, remembering her manners, “Thank you.”

“When would you like me ?”

“Well, tomorrow I have an appointment with my framer. Would the day after suit you ?”

“Perfect. Should I wear anything in particular ?”

Ever practical. Ever calm. Serena’s façade. Inside she is thrumming with inexplicable excitement.

“Whatever is comfortable. I’m afraid it’s going to be rather dull. Just sitting. Are you sure you don’t mind giving up your time ?” Give her one last out. But please, please, don’t say no. “I promise to keep you supplied with good coffee….and pastries ?”

“It’ll be a new experience. And that’s good enough for me,” Serena smiles.

And Bernie watches the creases at the edge of her mouth deepen as she does so. It is only when Serena withdraws her hand that Bernie realises it has remained on hers throughout this whole exchange. A warning voice inside her cautions, “Be careful Berenice. Remember….”

The waiter interrupts with the dessert menu.

“The tiramisu is positively evil…” Bernie hints.

Serena licks her lips.

Bernie takes a breath. Fuck. What is this woman doing to me ?

Serena smiles at her conspiratorially. “Not sure I could manage one on my own. Shall we share ?”

***********

The studio is a large bright room. To one side are two tall wide windows set into the deep walls, with cushioned window seats at their base. They flood the room with the soft morning light. In the centre of the room stands an easel, and by it some tables. On one there is a mess of paper and charcoals, on the other a jumbled assortment of tubes of paint, brushes, what looks like pallet knives, cloths, jars and the like. Against the far wall are some canvasses, stacked against each other so that only glimpses of them can be seen. The wooden floor is bare, save for sheeting spread beneath the easel and tables, presumably in an effort to avoid messing the polished wood below, and save by the windows, where welcoming rugs stretch out below an armchair, some well worn slippers cast haphazardly at its’ feet.

Opposite is an unlit fireplace with a marble mantelpiece above it, on which some photograph frames are perched.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get us some coffee,” and Bernie disappears through the door in the direction of what Serena assumes is a kitchen.

She wanders over to the mantelpiece, curious. She is surprised to see that they are pictures of a young man and a young woman, and a picture of what is clearly a younger Bernie, crouching down hugging a small boy and girl to her as the three of them laugh for the camera. She does not notice Bernie now leaning against the door frame, watching her. Jumps slightly as Bernie speaks, “My children. Cameron. And Charlotte.”

“They’re beautiful Bernie. Charlotte looks just like you ! You never said.”

“It’s, um, complicated. You know…..messy divorce….not easy…..” she trails off, clearly unwilling to elucidate further.

“Oh believe me Bernie. I totally understand. Fully paid up member of the embittered ex wives club myself.”

Bernie manages a weak smile in response.

Serena is learning. She recognises when a change of subject is in order. All in good time.

“So, how does this work ? Where would you like me ?”

She is brazen. Looks Bernie directly in the eye. Raises an eyebrow. Bernie can’t help but break out a broad smile herself, as she shakes her head at Serena’s shameless flirting.

“I thought maybe you could sit at the window seat. Whatever position you feel comfortable in. The light there is particularly good today.”

**********

The window seat is deep and spacious. Serena positions herself with her back cushioned against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her. She half looks out to the buildings on the opposite side of the small canal below.

“Is this ok ?”

For a moment she thinks Bernie has not heard her. There is no response.

Bernie catches herself. Steady.

“Perfect,” she whispers, “You are perfect.”

Serena takes a deep breath and tries to relax. From the way she is seated she cannot see Bernie. But she can hear her. She can….feel her. The scratch of, is it charcoal, against the canvas. Although very much fully clothed, she has never felt so naked in all her life. She can feel the burn of Bernie’s gaze on her. She can feel Bernie’s eyes scrutinizing her every pore. She cannot decide whether she feels excruciatingly uncomfortable or whether it feels like a caress. A caress ? What sort of word is that to describe what she feels ? I’m just sitting for a painter. A model. Pull yourself together. It’s no different than a painting a bowl of fruit.

“Do you mind if….” And Bernie’s voice is suddenly close to her ear. Her warm breath on her neck. Bernie’s fingers are unbuttoning the uppermost button on her blouse, opening the shirt a little wider. Serena swallows hard, feels a charge surge through her body, coursing directly between her legs.

“That’s better. Don’t move a thing. Perfect,” Bernie repeats softly.

And the warm soft breath retreats. The sound of the scratch of the charcoal on the canvas resumes. And Serena is left to recover her own breath, to steady the feeling of dizziness, to make sense of what just happened.

*********

As the day passes Serena learns that she does not have to remain seated till she is numb and stiff. That it’s okay to get up and walk about, to stretch before resuming her pose. That it’s fine to chat to Bernie as she works. That coffee gives way to red wine as the day progresses. She gets used to Bernie’s touch as she sits again, as she lightly adjusts Serena’s positioning to its’ former one. That as the light fades and the air chills, the fire is lit. That Bernie perches astride a stool as she paints.

She talks of her mother. She talks of Edward and his philandering. She talks of Elinor and the boundaries she pushes. Bernie listens and watches and sketches and paints. But it is not until the paints are set aside for the day and they are sat in front of the fire eating a large and rather impressive pizza that Bernie has literally thrown together in her small kitchen, that Bernie finally talks again of her children. And then Serena discovers more of the sadness Bernie carries within her. Wonders how she could bear it if Elinor no longer spoke to her. How Bernie bears it ? Wants to ask why ? Asks why.

She watches Bernie weigh up inside her whether to answer. For Bernie does not know how to answer, if to answer. Does not know whether she will be judged badly for telling her truth. Whether she will lose what already feels like a rare closeness, a rare friendship, if she speaks. She turns to look away, to stare into the flames.

“I betrayed them all. All those times I’d left them, justifying it as doing something “worthy”. That was bad enough. Made them feel second best. And then….well,” she pauses, “I had an affair. I fell in love with someone else. Not exactly a “worthy” cause anymore. I guess they felt it was the last straw. And when Marcus divorced me, they felt they needed to support him and punish me. They haven’t spoken to me since.”

Serena does not know how to respond. She despises unfaithfulness. Has suffered repeatedly from Edward’s. The normal Serena would….judge. But she sees how broken and how lonely Bernie is, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill as she stares into the fire, unable to look Serena in the face. And again she thinks how it would feel if Elinor never spoke to her again. And then all she can feel is tenderness.

“Oh Bernie. That must be so hard.”

Bernie shrugs. Still doesn’t look at her.

“Marcus is a good dad. Charlotte is at uni now, I believe. Don’t know which one. And Cam. Last I heard he was at med school. Following the family tradition I guess.”

“Do they know where you are ?”

“No idea. I doubt it. I rather chose to vanish after the divorce, and then well….my…accident. They probably imagine I’m still overseas with the army.”

“And your…..friend ?” What do you call the person you had an affair with ?

“Not together. It didn’t work out. I think everything going on around me just put too pressure on us.” Another pause. There’s more. Serena waits. “She went back to serve in Afghanistan and that was that.”

She. It is a surprise. And yet not a surprise. One word, one letter, that makes all the difference. And yet none. After all, love is love. If only everyone thought so.

“Oh Bernie.” And she gently places her hand on Bernie’s arm. They settle into a silence. Bernie feels the doors ease open. She wants to tell. She wants to tell her.

“Her name was Alex. She was a sergeant in the RAMC. An anaesthetist. We worked together. Well. We became friends. And then one day she kissed me. All my life I’d buried it. I’d seen how girls at school with crushes on other girls were mocked. I’d heard my parents express their disgust. Heard the jibes and comments. Refused to allow it to be me. So I married Marcus. He was a good friend, a good doctor, and a nice man. And once I’d done that, it didn’t matter what I felt inside, did it ? At least that’s what I’d persuaded myself. Until Alex. For a while we were supremely happy. Discrete. But so happy in our own secret world. But then I came home on leave. Everything felt so empty and wrong. Marcus sensed something. I tried explaining. He felt cheated. Told me our whole life was a sham. Told the children. I fled back to the army. Tried to lose myself in Alex. But felt so guilty it began to eat at us as well. And then I got blown up. And everything came to an abrupt end. Alex tried, bless her, but I was so angry at the gods, she never stood a chance. So. There it is.”

Serena wishes Bernie could understand just how much she appreciates the fact that Bernie has trusted her with this. That she understands how difficult it has been to tell her. Wants to hug her. To let her know that it is ok. But thinks to hug her now might be….confusing ? Because she herself is …. confused ?

So instead they sit like that a little longer. Until Serena says, “Thank you.”

“For what ?”

“For sharing that with me. For trusting me.”

And they look at each other. Bernie gives her a weak smile. Serena smiles back.

“More wine ?”

“You bet !”

The moment passes. They move on. In quiet relaxed companionship. Serena asks if she can see the painting. Not yet. It’s not finished.

“Would you like me to sit again tomorrow ?”

“Would you ?”

“Of course.”

“Then yes please.”

************

Bernie walks her home. They pause on a small bridge and, their sides pressed close together for warmth against the cold night air, they watch the lights spill and shimmer on the water’s surface. By the time they reach Serena’s door she does not want the night to end, wonders whether she should ask Bernie in. She feels Bernie pause. Feels her own heart pound. Sees Bernie’s eyes drop to her lips. Wants Bernie to touch them against her own. But then Bernie pulls back.

“Tomorrow then ? Same time ?”

Serena can only nod.

“Goodnight Serena,” Bernie says softly in her low voice, as she turns and walks away. As Serena shuts the door behind her she traces her fingers along her lips and murmurs to herself, “Goodnight sweet Bernie.” And once in bed she strokes herself to sleep, Bernie’s name again on her lips. She is no longer confused. Serena, dyed in the wool life long heterosexual, knows exactly what she is feeling.  


	6. Another Day, Another Night

The next day passes much like the first. Serena seats herself as before. There is strong steaming coffee and a pain au chocolate to greet her. The fire is already lit, for today there is no sun and the air is chilled. They talk less. But their silence is not uncomfortable. More…companionable. There is no reference to the previous evening’s conversation. This time however, Serena does permit Bernie’s gaze to feel like a caress. She allows herself to drift off in the warmth of it. She wonders what Bernie is thinking as she paints. And in those moments when they do catch each other’s eye, there is a smile between them of reassurance, of care, of understanding.

The light is fading by mid afternoon when Bernie slides off her stool and puts down her brush. She steps back from her easel and looks intently at it. “Okay,” she murmurs to herself.

“Is it done ?”

“Not quite, but nearly.”

“May I… ?”

“If you like.”

Serena does not hesitate. She does not think, what if I don’t like it. She trusts Bernie. Bernie stands back to let her see.

“Oh.”

It is unmistakably her. A sadness maybe. A longing perhaps. But painted with such tenderness.

“Oh Bernie.”

She swallows deeply. Her eyes brim with tears that do not spill.

“You are beautiful,” she hears whispered behind her. Feels a hand softly cup her shoulder. She does not turn, does not move. She feels Bernie’s breath close to her neck. And then Bernie’s lips are pressed against her skin. She cannot move. Feels rooted to the spot. Hears the words “So beautiful,” as kiss after gentle kiss is planted on her. Still does not move as the collar of her shirt is pulled back. Does not flinch when Bernie kisses the scars that line her shoulders, the scars left by her angry mother’s rings. She just closes her eyes and lets Bernie worship her with her lips.

When Serena finally turns, Bernie pauses and pulls back. She scans Serena’s face anxiously. Has she overstepped the mark ? But then Serena is dipping forward to catch her lips. Their mouths are opening to each other’s. And Bernie is drowning in Serena. Hands, arms are pulling each other impossibly closer, wrapping around each other, until there is no place between them.

When they eventually break for air, their foreheads still touching, their broad grins are all they need to know.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I met you,” Bernie smiles.

Serena’s throat feels tight. Her legs are like jelly. And between them…. She wants Bernie, needs her, needs to feel her.

“Bernie. Take me to bed. Please, take me to bed.”

*************

In the cold light of day Serena might blush at how brazen she must seem. She might blush at the idea of having sex with a woman. Not something that she’s ever considered, let alone done, before. But it is not day. And the light has long faded.

Clothes are shed, layers peeled away. Bernie’s body is a revelation. Familiar and yet new. Soft, sweet and scarred. She wants to learn every inch of it as she traces her fingers across it. As she feels Bernie seek out and taste every inch of hers. Time has ceased to exist. She hears nothing but the rush in her ears, and moans of pleasure, though whether they are hers or Bernie’s she does not know or care.

By the time Bernie slides her fingers deep inside Serena, Serena is aware of nothing else. Bernie’s fingers dip and curl until Serena feels herself flood over them. When she recalls it later she will describe it as a sensation of pure….joy.

“Oh God…. I’m sorry…. Don’t stop,” she gasps.

“Don’t be. And I won’t,” comes the low firm response.

And she doesn’t. Not until Serena has fallen over the edge. Not until her sobs have subsided. Not until her heart has slowed again. Not until they have both collapsed side by side, exhausted, messy, sticky and sated.

“Are you okay ?”

“What do you think ? Seriously Bernie ?” Serena laughs.

And Bernie stretches out her arm to wrap around Serena, drawing her close. Serena rests her head against Bernie’s breast, kissing the swell of it gently. She looks up at Bernie’s face and sees her hunger. Bolder now, she cups the breast and takes the nipple into her mouth. Bernie’s eyes close and her back arches up to meet her, as Serena’s tongue swirls and sucks. Serena thinks she hears the word “please” within Bernie’s almost silent whimpers. She moves slowly down. Parting Bernie’s legs she is immediately intoxicated by the heady scent of want.

“Serena ?”

She answers only with her tongue. It is warm, wet and welcoming. It is delicious. It is Bernie. This is like no intimacy she has ever known. It is as if until now, her whole life, she has always been only a visitor. But now…now, this is where she belongs.

***********

Bernie sits in the armchair in the corner of the bedroom. She has relit the fire and the room is already warm. Her robe is roughly pulled around her, her sketch pad propped up against her raised knees, her charcoal already staining the fingers of her right hand as she moves it across the page. Serena is still asleep. Her hair is mussed against the pillow. The duvet is messily draped across Serena’s partly exposed back, her hand stretching across the bed where, until a short while ago, Bernie’s body had lain.

Bernie draws feverishly. Sketch after sketch. Desperately. Trying to capture this moment for all time. She thinks this is the most beauty she has ever seen. Ever known. Wants to go on seeing it, breathing it, every morning, every night, forever….

Forever. Her charcoal snaps.

************

Serena wakes. A smile gently playing on her face. There is no sign of Bernie but the fire has been lit, and the curtains opened. She listens out to see if she can hear Bernie moving around elsewhere in the apartment. It is silent. As she sits up she spots the note on the pillow beside her.

“Hope you slept well. Didn’t want to disturb you. Forgot I had a meeting today. Sorry. Help yourself to anything you want. There should be plenty of hot water for a shower. No idea when I’ll be back. Fine to just pull the door behind you when you leave. Thanks. B”

Her heart sinks a little. She already misses the feel of Bernie’s skin against her own. She mooches around the apartment for a bit. Has a shower and lets her soapy hands sliding across her skin remind her of Bernie’s touch. Makes herself a coffee and stands looking at the painting still sat on the easel in the studio. She smiles. She understands it better now. She looks at some of the canvasses stacked against the wall. They are striking and bold paintings. She is drawn to one in particular. Up close the brush strokes of the painting seem almost crude and stark, but when you step back the colours and the textures transform themselves. The evening light from the canalside streetlights reflected in the rain lashed pavement seems to shimmer and dance with an unquiet passion. It is an extraordinary painting.

**********

It is 11.30 am when she finally leaves the building, pulling the heavy door closed behind her as instructed, and makes her way back to her own apartment. There is sense of lightness, of promise, about her. Gone is the dread and weight that has been her companion for so long.

She does not see the figure hidden behind the window of the bar opposite, watching her as she leaves. She does not see Bernie.


	7. Holby In The Rain

Serena spends the day happily pottering around, soaking up more of what Venice has to offer. She finds herself fascinated by the colourful and sometimes grotesque traditional masks that are being crafted in readiness for the Carnivale in February. Muses at the concept of a mask as a device to hide identity and permit the wearer to do and say things they dare not in the open. Venetian liberties. By evening she wonders whether, having heard nothing from Bernie all day, she should text her. Wonders what the rules are. By nightfall she is becoming more anxious. Decides to send a simple short text.

“Hope today went ok. Thank you for last night. Missed you today. See you again soon ? S” she hesitates then adds “x”.

She sends it as she turns out the light, her bed feeling large and empty around her. Hopes that she will hear the distinctive beep of a reply arriving. But nothing comes. She lies in the darkness, and hears the rumble of a thunderstorm swell and the lash of the rain as it follows. She drops off eventually and when she wakes reaches for the phone. Nothing.

“Bernie. Is everything ok ? Call me ? S x”

There is no reply.

By early afternoon she is becoming agitated. And not a little annoyed. Doubts creep into her mind. Did she read everything that wrong ? She is sure not. Is she that bad a judge of character ? Surely it wasn’t just her who felt …. something ? But she is a proud woman. She will not beg. If Bernie wants to see her again then it’s Bernie’s move now….

But the radio silence continues. By nightfall Serena feels the creepings of despair. Her heart is hurting. She feels foolish. Humiliated. She is a grown woman. She is 51 years old. She can slice bodies open and perform the most intricate of surgeries. She can run an entire hospital. And right now here she is, sobbing into her pillow. How could she even have thought it meant anything to Bernie ? How could she let herself imagine there might be any future for them ? She chastises herself. You stupid, stupid, woman.

Somehow she gets through another day. But does not leave her apartment. Can’t bear to show her face to Venice. By evening, with still no sign from Bernie, she decides. She pulls herself together, takes a deep breath. And starts to pack. Venice and whatever it was she thought she had found, are lost to her. She will leave tomorrow.

And she does. It doesn’t matter that there are still days to run on her rental. It doesn’t matter that she has no flight booked. All she knows is that she must leave. Cannot bear to stay.

***********

Nothing in Holby has changed. Looking up at the main building from the car park it seems if anything greyer than before. She straightens her back, pulls back her shoulders. And walks in.

“We weren’t expecting to see you back so soon,” the familiar soft Scottish brogue of Raf greets her.

“Well here I am.” She attempts a smile.

“It’s good to see you. I hope the break went ok ?”

She nods. Cannot trust herself to say more.

“So, fill me in. What’ve we got ?”

And before too long she is back in the thrust and demand of AAU. She works longer hours than she should. Wants to tire herself out. Wants to exhaust her mind so she can stop it thinking when she is not on the ward. It makes her grumpy, short fused. Nurses and F1s keep a wide berth.

November turns into December. Rain falls. The house never seems warm enough. Her bones feel chilled. Maybe it’s the overworking. Maybe it’s because she’s not eating. Maybe because, despite her exhaustion, she still cannot sleep. She wrestles with her thoughts each night – going over and over what happened. Replaying every word, every look, every touch. How could she have misread everything so ? How could she have so misjudged her ? She tries not to think of Bernie but in each unguarded moment her mind betrays her. It taunts her, mocks her. It knows.

This year she detests the tinsel and the baubles that appear around the hospital. The Christmas jumpers. The constant hum of carols and festive tunes. The seasonal bonhomie. She buys no Christmas tree and is relieved when Elinor breaks the news that she’s going away skiing with her father and his precocious child bride over the Christmas period. She puts her name down for the unpopular Christmas shifts to the gratitude of those relieved from such duties as a result, but to the trepidation of those left to work alongside her.

Meanwhile it rains. No festive blankets of white fluffy snow. Just rain, sometimes sleet, and grey dull puddles.

Raf watches her. He tries to entice her to Albies for a drink. For a chat. She brushes him off. He bides his time. She is his friend. He knows that something has happened. He maintains a respectable distance, ready to jump in when the opportunity arises.

***********

And after a few weeks it does.

It is the end of the late shift. He is signing off a patient discharge when he hears the crash coming from Serena’s office accompanied by a loud single expletive. Calmly he hands back the signed form to a nervous F1 with instructions to proceed with the discharge and knocks on the office door.

“Not now,” comes the reply.

He hesitates but then decides to ignore it, entering the office, clicking the door shut softly behind him. Serena is sat at her desk, her head in her hands, covering her eyes. Her desk looks as though she has swept it clear with her arm, papers strewn across the floor. The cause of the crash is her mobile phone, which she appears to have hurtled across the room in the direction of the austere metal filing cabinets, but which remains strangely unharmed by the experience.

“I thought I said not now,” Serena repeats through gritted teeth.

“Serena, you have to tell me. What is going on ?”

He thinks he hears a stifled sob. He turns the key in the door to prevent further interruption and closes the blinds. Their shift is done anyway.

“Serena,” gently now, he draws a chair up close, “what happened in Venice ?”

He is her friend. They’ve been through enough already – his failed marriage, her mother’s illness – if she can trust anyone then she can trust him.

He repeats, “Something happened there didn’t it ?”

She nods.

“How about you start at the beginning ?”

So she does, but maybe not all the details, for even in her distress there are things too intimate to ever be shared, especially with a work colleague, even one you call your friend. She tells him of the intriguing stranger, of their dinner, of being asked to sit for her portrait to be painted. Halfway through she forgets to avoid gendering Bernie. Raf notes the change. Does not say anything. Lets Serena continue.

“Serena. You fell in love with her didn’t you ?”

It is the first time it has been spelt out in so many words. The words ricochet inside her. She stifles a stuttering sob and shakes her head, defeated.

“But she didn’t feel the same way ?”

“I thought she did. I truly did. But….radio silence. A bloody note on the pillow. No explanations. Just radio fucking silence…..til now.” And she points to the mobile phone still laying on the floor.

He picks it up and hands it to her. She re opens the message and hands it back to him. One word. One word only.

“sorry”

“What the fuck does that mean ? Sorry, what ? Sorry for my silence ? Sorry I led you on ? Sorry I walked out on you ? Sorry ? Why now ? It’s been over a month.”

“Why don’t you ask her ?”

“Raf, I don’t think I can. She hurt me too much. If I talk to her I’ll let her in again, and I just can’t take the risk.”

“Are you sure ?” he presses.

She nods. More resolute now, “I need to move on. I need to put her behind me. To stop behaving like a jilted teenager. I have to make it become something that just happened. One of life’s experiences. Yes. I need to move on.” She straightens herself. She looks at the phone and deletes the message.

“Goodbye Berenice Wolfe.”


	8. A Trip To London

Time heals so they say. Actually all it does is grow a new skin over the cut, a scar. Serena wears it like her other scars, doesn’t let on how it still burns deep down. She tries to find a lightness. Goes for drinks with her colleagues. Stops terrifying F1s, anymore than strictly necessary that is. Takes Ellie on a spa weekend, to make up for her Christmas absence. To all intents and purposes she is nearly her old self again. Only she knows how deep the cut is beneath the surface. Won’t let anyone really touch her. Because no one can now. No one else can.

Only Raf sees Serena as she truly is. He keeps it close. They don’t speak of it but when he sees the mask begin to slip, he will be the one to lead her to Albies, to put a glass of shiraz in her hand, whilst she fixes it back in place.

**********

The spring comes, then summer, and then it is autumn. Raf takes a day’s leave to go to London. He is coy about his purpose. Murmurs something about wanting to see something or rather. Serena hopes he’s not got itchy feet, that he’s not off to interview at some big London hospital. Then feels guilty about perhaps holding him back. Tries to think of ways to stretch his talents further here in Holby. Doesn’t want to lose him. He’s a good friend, as well as a good doctor.

They share a sandwich lunch on a bench a few days later. Not one for dancing around a subject, Serena asks straight out.

“Why did you go to London ? You’re not thinking of leaving us are you ?”

“Heavens, no. I went to see an art exhibition.”

“Goodness Raf. You have hidden depths,” she teases, relieved.

“Not really. More a matter of curiosity.” he pauses, wondering how to continue, “And I think you should go and see it too.”

Serena looks at him with wry amusement. “I’m not sure that’s really my sort of thing.”

He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a slightly crumpled flyer, and tentatively hands it to her. She smooths it out. It is a flyer for a gallery in Islington. A gallery that is exhibiting the Venetian paintings of one… Berenice Wolfe. Her stomach grips tight and she feels a little nauseous. The blood drains from her head. She turns questioningly to Raf. Reddening a little, he just shrugs, and repeats, “I think you should go.”

She shakes her head.

“Yes Serena. You need to go…..I’ll go with you if you want.”

She scrunches up the leaflet and thrusts it back at him. Then gets up without another word and walks away.

**********

A week later Serena finds herself on a train to London. She is alone. She is not really sure why she is doing this. Compares herself to a moth being drawn irresistibly to the flame it knows will consume it. But she has had no peace since that talk on the bench. Her mind is restless once again. Thoughts of Bernie, unanswered questions, collide around it in a demented frenzy. Somehow she thinks seeing Bernie’s work might bring some sort of closure. She hopes she is not deluding herself.

The gallery off Upper Street is not a large one. But seeing the words “Berenice Wolfe” across its’ façade, her hands tighten into fists, her short surgeon’s nails leaving crescent shaped imprints across her palms. On entering she immediately recognises the painting that greets all comers. It is the one she saw in the stack in the studio. Its’ title appropriately “Venice in the Rain”. Framed and lit properly it is even more powerful an image that she had originally thought. A leaflet is placed in her hand by an earnest attendant, who explains it’s a bit about the artist’s background and asks if she is familiar with Ms Wolfe’s work. The pounding in Serena’s head as she stares at the painting is so demanding that she does not notice the attendant suddenly stop and move away.

The paintings seem to be arranged chronologically, as if some sort of retrospective. This is no doubt explained in the leaflet but she knows that if she tries to read it the words will just swim randomly across the page. This is not about rational. This is not about logic. She is beyond any sense of control. Her response to the canvases is purely emotional. It is all she can do to keep upright and move in front of them.

She moves slowly past swirling desert sand storms; past children crouching in ruined corners; past a wizened old man his head buried in his hands; past abandoned broken bodies; through calm lapping waters; past burnished eternal buildings. Sees the seasons roll out across the Venetian landscape. Doesn’t notice the stares of other visitors to the gallery as she moves through. Her breath is shallow and rapid. In every painting she sees Bernie’s pain, sees Bernie’s heart. And she cannot stop looking.

She comes to the corner of the main gallery as it leads into a smaller annexe. Only then does she notice a look of curiosity, or is it recognition, on the faces of others as she passes. And then she stops. In front of her is the painting. Her painting. Or rather Bernie’s painting of her. It is entitled “S”. It has changed a little since last she saw it. It is somehow…..deeper, richer…..than she recalled. It had not occurred to her that it might be included in the display. But that is not all. The whole annexe space is devoted to one subject. Each frame a sketch or a painting of her. Her legs are as if made of lead as she drags them one in front of the other, past each separate hanging. Time is like a film in slow motion, broken down frame by frame.

The last is of her asleep face down, stretched out across the bed, the sheets pooling at her hips. And then she knows. She was not mistaken. She stands and let the tears spill and roll unchallenged down her face.

“I couldn’t paint anything else.”

The voice behind her.

“It was all I could think about. There was only one thing I could think about. That was you, Serena.”

Serena does not move.

“Still is.”

Cannot move.

“Then why ?”

“That morning, as I watched you sleep, I realised you already meant more to me than anyone ever had before. I got scared. I’ve destroyed every relationship that ever mattered to me. I didn’t want to destroy ours too. I thought if I stopped it then, it would be okay. It wouldn’t be too late. That you, we, could move on with our separate lives. That if I stopped then, I wouldn’t hurt you …. or me.”

“What about what I might have wanted ? Didn’t I get a say ?” Serena whispers. Still doesn’t turn.

“I’m sorry. I got it so wrong. I didn't trust myself not to ruin it. I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you did hurt me. So much.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

Serena feels overwhelmingly weary. She wipes away her tears with the back of her hand, blinks her eyes clear of them, and turns to see the face she’d given up hope of ever seeing again. It is a tortured face. One filled with longing.

“So, what happens now ? Has something changed ?”

“Me. I have. I don’t want this horrible empty lonely feeling anymore.”

Serena watches as a lone tear breaks away and escapes down Bernie’s cheek. Before she can help herself, her hand reaches out and her thumb gently brushes it away, her hand lingering to softly cup the side of Bernie’s face. Bernie nestles into it. They don’t speak. Their eyes fixed upon each other’s. Questions and answers silently flowing between them. Unspoken apologies, explanations, negotiations. And then Serena is moving towards Bernie, her lips fixing on Bernie’s, Bernie’s open to meet hers. Hands in hair, on necks, on shoulders, on backs. Silent promises whispered deep into each other’s mouths as they pull the other closer.

The patrons have been ushered out quietly. The gallery is empty. The closed sign hung tactfully on the door as it shuts gently. Leaving them both alone. Together.


	9. Epilogue

It is a beautiful morning. Serena sits at her kitchen table. Her shift does not start for another couple of hours. Through the patio windows leading out to the garden, she watches the birds dipping in and out of the feeder that’s hanging in the pear tree. Little purple crocuses are beginning to peek up through the grass. She sucks the end of her pen as she muses over a clue, the newspaper crossword spread out on the table in front of her. A mug of piping hot coffee sits at its side. The coffee percolator gurgles in the background.

“Any left for me ?”

A hand strokes the nape of her neck then settles on her shoulder.

“Plenty. Freshly made.”

She turns her head towards it and kisses it lightly before it withdraws.

“Good oh.”

A chair is pulled aside and Bernie sits down, newly filled mug in hand.

“Not on till later then ?”

“Not till 11, no. But it means I’ll be back late tonight.”

“No worries. I’ve got physio later anyway. And I can get supper ready.”

She smiles. Like an eager puppy, Serena thinks, and then laughs.

“Bernie, you’ve managed to get paint on your face again.”

Bernie just shrugs and smiles some more.

She’ll go back to her attic studio soon. Serena’s converted it for her, had velux windows put in so as to flood it with light. Up there she can paint and mess to her heart’s content.

And that is what she is. Serena too. Content.

 

The End


End file.
